


Written by the Victors

by Khirsah



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Catching Fire AU, F/M, Hunger Games-appropriate dubious consent/prostitution, Hunger Games-appropriate violence, M/M, Multi, No Amis will die, No pairings are "minor" pairings, each pairing will get its own romantic arc, they are victors after all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-01-05 11:45:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khirsah/pseuds/Khirsah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras had been twelve years old when he’d been chosen for the Games. Small and quiet and fierce as the sun, he’d stalked to the stage with barely a tremble, eyes slitted against the suddenly silent crowd. District 1 was Career—kids fought each other for the honor of volunteering, voices overlapping as they shouted to be heard.</p><p>His was the first year no one volunteered.</p><p>His was the first year a Career tribute refused to join a pack.</p><p>His was the first year <i>no one</i> betted on 1 making it to the end—no one except eight-year-old know-nothings like Grantaire, watching every night with shaking hands, feeling an unexpected heat unfold piece by piece inside his chest until he was overflowing with…something. Some feeling he couldn’t name, not for many, many more years.</p><p><b>NOTE:</b> Alas, this story is on hiatus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Grantaire

_He’s running, and his lungs are burning with each desperate breath, but he can’t stop. If he stops…_

_Christ, if he stops, it’s all over. If he stops, he’s dead._

**

The persistent chime of the telephone woke Grantaire from a rare dreamless sleep. It drilled through his skull, echoing painfully between his ears as he snuffled and shifted and swore his way toward something like consciousness. Someone had set the damn thing on its highest volume—he wasn’t awake enough to remember who, but he was willing to put his money on Éponine—and try as he might, he couldn’t manage to drown it out.

“Fuck oooooffff,” he moaned, folding his arms over his head. His voice was dry and rough, and he felt like he’d spent the night being kicked in the teeth by a pair of whisky-soaked boots.

Which, if he squinted to think about it, wasn’t all _that_ far off the mark. But that was neither here nor there, and, “All right, all _right_ , fuck, hold on a minute.”

Grantaire twisted, groggily turning his face against the soft give of his ( _the hell is this?_ ) unexpected bedmate. The girl was fully dressed and snoring wetly against cracked linoleum where the two of them had passed out the night before. Her Peacekeeper badge rose and fell with every even breath.

“Huh,” Grantaire said. He blinked blearily as he pushed himself up onto one arm. Red-orange light spilled through the dirty kitchen window, but it was impossible to tell whether he was seeing sunup or sundown. Snow brushed wetly against the pane.

And the phone continued to ring.

He looked up, annoyance slowly bleeding into worry as the seconds ticked by. _Don’t answer it_ , he thought, even as he rolled to his hands and knees. People didn’t call him with good news—not like this. Not at sunrise or sunset on some bland, average, shitty day. Éponine might have tried, but all she had to do was stalk across the nearly-empty square of the Victor’s Village and let herself in. Same with Gavroche. Same with anyone who cared to talk to District 12’s most famous drunk.

If someone needed to get in touch with him this urgently, the news couldn’t be anything but bad.

 _Go back to sleep_ , he thought, followed by, _You coward_. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, whatever the news was. It could have been anything. A new law passed in the Capitol. Some sponsor insane enough to want to buy his ass for the evening. Someone ( _not Enjolras, please_ ) hurt in another pointless crusade. 

_That_ was enough to get him off his ass. Grantaire grit his teeth and staggered to his feet, stumbling to the kitchen island. It was stacked with dishes and empty bottles, paintbrushes rising from various cups of dirty water like a strange bristling forest. His phone was lost amongst the wreckage, ringing, ringing, ringing in an endless cheery jangle. “Okay, all right, come on, fuck.” He pushed aside plates, bowls, mugs until he found the cord coiled around a coffee cup with the grimacing face of District 12’s mayor painted on its side. The cord led to the phone tucked in its plastic cradle, and Grantaire drew a steadying breath as he pulled it free and raised the receiver to his ear.

“Hello?” Grantaire said.

There was a short pause, then a long, breathy sigh. “ _Grantaaaaaire_.”

He blinked and pulled the phone away, staring at the glowing green buttons as if they held some kind of answer. That…wasn’t what he’d been expecting. “Uh, yeah, speaking. Who’s this?”

There was another long breath. “Grantaaaaaaire, I’ve seen an _angel_. Her name is Cosette and she has little angel feet and little angel hands and hair the color of little angel kisses.”

“Oh for fuck’s— Courfeyrac, I was _asleep_.”

Even across the miles and miles that separated them (District 4 to District 12), Courfeyrac’s cackle was infectious. “I’m not Courfeyrac!” he protested. He wasn’t even bothering to hide his distinctive accent now. “I’m Marius of the House Pontmercy, and I am in _love_.”

Grantaire leaned a hip against the kitchen island and rubbed absently at his chest. His pulse was only now beginning to slow from the barrage of nasty images of Enjolras surrounded by Peacekeepers, Enjolras being dragged bloody and defiant before Snow, Enjolras Enjolras, always fucking Enjolras. “Are you?” he said flatly.

“Mmhmm. Sit down and I’ll tell you about it. Her name is Cosette and she comes from the heavens above and wears diamonds in her hair and—”

“—and murders little children with a pearl-handled knife. Yeah,” Grantaire snarled, “I know where this is going.”

There was a long pause, the line humming between them. If he closed his eyes, Grantaire could actually see Courfeyrac’s shocked, disapproving expression. _Fuck me_. “I’m sorry, Courf,” he said, slumping further against the island. “That was out of line.”

It was _true_ , but that didn’t—shouldn’t—matter now. Especially not between them. “I’m just hungover and in a shitty mood,” Grantaire added when Courfeyrac didn’t say anything. “Plus side, there’s a Peacekeeper who’s going to feel worse than me whenever she peels herself off the floor.”

“Do I want to know? I don’t think I want to know.” Courfeyrac didn’t sound quite as cheerful as before, but Grantaire had never known him to hold a grudge in all the years they’d been mentors together. “Wait, no, I have to know: _why_ is there a Peacekeeper stuck to your floor? We are talking about your floor, right? Or did you leave her out on the ice? _Context_ , Grantaire.”

He smirked. “You didn’t call to hear about the people plastered to my kitchen tiles, Courf.”

“Grantaire, trust me when I say I will _always_ call to hear about the people plastered to your kitchen tiles. But,” he added, tone still light, “speaking of _people_ , I was just calling to remind you that it’s almost 5:00 and Cosette’s victory tour starts tonight.”

Grantaire froze.

“In District 1.” Courfeyrac’s voice dropped back into a low croon. “Ennnjollllraaaassss will be on the television for your viewing pleasure. With his gleaming angel eyes and full angel mouth and hair the color of—”

Grantaire slammed the receiver down and stumbled toward the sink. He squinted out at the setting—yes, definitely setting, _fuck_ —sun as he twisted the knobs, knocking dirty plates aside to make room for his head. The room was still spinning in a faint amber-color haze, but the shock of freezing cold water was enough to make him jerk and hiss into full wakefulness.

The victory tour started _tonight_ , and he had almost missed it.

Thank God for Courfeyrac; Éponine would have let him sleep through it. He was going to kill Éponine with her own garrote for this, useless best friend that she was.

“ _ooooh_.”

The low moan drifted from behind him, nearly lost under the spray. Grantaire cursed and straightened, flipping sopping, inky black curls back from his brow. Rivulets of water ran down his face, catching in the hollows beneath his eyes before rolling across his stubbled cheeks. He rubbed at his jaw, absently reaching to kill the water. His head was pounding and his vision still swam in and out, but he felt more stable on his feet after the impromptu bath.

It would _do_. And it wasn’t like District 1 would be able to look into the wide maw of the television monitors and see his pinched, pathetically eager face, anyway.

Grantaire sighed and pushed away from the sink, lurching unsteadily toward the stairs. His muscles jumped and quaked like popcorn kernels and his stomach roiled unpleasantly, but he just grit his teeth and dug his nails into the railing as he dragged his sorry ass up to the second floor and his bedroom. He had less than ten minutes to spare; the Capitol broadcasts ran like clockwork.

His clothes were piled in messy nests across his floor and sagging mattress. Grantaire kicked a few aside before finding a new shirt and pants that smelled relatively fresh. He’d have to remember to get a wash done before the victory tour made it to 12. Maybe cut his hair. _Shave_ , at least. 

Not that it would do any good.

Not that it _mattered_.

He yanked on his coat and shoved his fingers through still-wet curls. Outside, the sun was sinking behind the blue-violet ridge of the mountains, stealing with it the last of the day’s warmth. The hush of snowfall fell over the dark room; Grantaire stood with his breath rising in white clouds around him, silently counting his racing heartbeats.

Then he shook himself out and grabbed the bright pink mittens Éponine had knitted for him (her “talent”; the Capitol audience missed the part where she snarled and cursed over every dropped stitch, inventing words when the usual _fucking shitfaced cocked-up cuntswab_ wasn’t enough), shoved his feet into boots, and thundered down the stairs.

The Peacekeeper was still moaning in his kitchen. Grantaire left her to it, slamming out the house and into the drifts piled up on his unshoveled stoop. The snow was almost up to his knees as he plowed across the lawn toward the path leading out of the Village, but once he turned left toward the Hob, the road became clear enough. There weren’t as many people out as usual—they were gathered around televisions waiting for the broadcast to begin—and the heavy stillness followed at Grantaire’s heels as he ducked his head and hurried his steps, passing clapboard houses and through the open square.

The Hob was a huge, ugly building that used to be a coal warehouse back in the day. It still stood like a black smear against the sky, smoke drifting from its haphazard collection of chimneys—some original to the building, others added over the years when parts of the roof started to cave. There was a lively group gathered at the main entrance, but they made way as Grantaire pushed his way inside.

“Thought you were going to miss the show!” one of his friends called, slapping his shoulder as he passed.

“They’re counting down the red carpet now. Three guesses what the latest Capitol trend is,” Maggie added, offering a broad wink.

Grantaire grinned back, relaxing into a slouching shamble now that the crisis had passed. He thumbed his nose at her playfully. “A bag full of crazy?”

“She said _trend_ ,” Éponine interjected from the main bar. She had a drink in front of her and a steaming bowl of some kind of game soup. “Bag full of batshit can’t be a trend if it’s a staple. Move over,” she added to Gavroche. He rolled his eyes and hopped to another stool, making room for Grantaire. “Park your butt. I didn’t think you’d make it in time.”

Grantaire slid next to Éponine and stole her mug. “No thanks to you. Some friend you are.”

She shifted to look at him with frankly assessing eyes. Éponine and Gavroche shared the same dark skin and thick dark hair. Éponine’s cheeks were rounder, however, and her chin more pointed, giving her an innocent, heart-shaped face that had charmed the Capitol years ago, during her own Games. It didn’t fool Grantaire. “You’re pissed.”

“I would have been, if Courfeyrac hadn’t woken me.”

Éponine flicked her fingers, scowling. “Courfeyrac needs to mind his own business.”

“He was doing me a kindness, harpy.”

“This wasn’t a kindness, Grantaire.” She reached over to snatch back her drink before he could finish draining it dry. “And you know for a fact you’re going to be eating those words when they make it to 2 tomorrow.”

District 2: Marius’s home.

Grantaire shrugged a shoulder, not denying it, and leaned against the bar. The red carpet was beginning to wrap up—and it looked like live _doves_ were the fashion trend of choice, likely due to the current victor’s large eyes and snow-white dresses—and Flickerman’s face appeared huge and colorful on the screen. “I’m not going to argue with you today, ‘Ponine,” he said. “I’ll save tomorrow for tomorrow.”

“How philosophical. Do you think—”

Grantaire hushed her as the image on the wide Hob screen shattered into hundreds of flickering lights and the camera swooped toward the familiar District 1 stage. He’d been there, once, on his own victory tour. Grantaire still remembered how it felt to push past the rich velvet curtains and out onto the gleaming chrome-and-glass stage. It was nothing like 12’s rickety deathtrap. In 1, the Games were an…an _honor_ , an inescapable part of life. Something the everyday people didn’t _want_ to escape.

The roads had been so clean, the people well-dressed and well-fed. Large centers flanked the main square where kids (unofficially) trained in the hopes of being chosen. Those hopefuls had stood there in the first rows ringing the stage, then, watching an eighteen-year-old cynic fumble through the lines he’d been forced to memorize; he’d barely been able to look at them, at the stage, at the parents of the dead, at the whole bloody spectacle. Even after he’d been ushered behind the curtain and into the rich backstage room, he hadn’t really been able to take it all in. He’d just ended up rubbing his calloused fingers over the nubby softness of the over-stuffed chairs and wondering how someone like Enjolras came from a place like this.

Not that he’d known Enjolras then, outside of his television. Not the way he did now, four years later.

But still, looking at all that shining glass and chrome, remembering the lush velvets and comfortable lives of the citizens…it didn’t make _sense_ that the Capitol’s lapdog had birthed a man who’d dedicated his life to burning the government to the ground.

“Look at her,” Éponine said as she rested her chin on her fist. The curtains pulled back as Cosette stepped out, practically glowing in white-on-white-on-white. She looked ethereal, long blonde hair left loose about her shoulders. “Pure as the driven snow. That’s what they want us to buy, anyway.”

Grantaire grunted in response, tapping his blunt nails against the bartop, trying not to let his impatience show. Her mentor stepped out after Cosette, shooting a disinterested glance toward the crowd before turning a blinding smile on the camera. She was dressed in white and silver as well—the entire crew was, Grantaire realized. Long white banners unfurled, silver lettering glittering in the dim. The lot of them glowed against the dusky backdrop as if lit from within.

And then, _finally_ , a familiar figure stepped onto the stage. Tall, leanly muscular, dressed in white and silver and _red_ , because 1’s _L'enfant terrible_ , their child murderer, had never, would never, be willing to bow his proud neck completely to anyone. He paused at the edge of the stage, blue eyes raking the crowd with an open contempt that only made them cheer all the louder: their youngest victor, their greatest killer, their very own god made flesh.

He was an otherwordly creature, up there. He was so beautiful it hurt to see.

"Shit," Éponine muttered. "All right, R, I have to give it to you: your creepy object of obsession just gets prettier every year."

Grantaire grunted in reply, eyes moving over the long body hungrily, soaking in every detail while he had the chance. The high cheekbones and square jaw. The arched brows a few shades darker than his hair. The curve of his bottom lip. The tight way he held his shoulders. The way his fingers still twitched toward his waist now and again, as if the famous chakram was still strapped to his side.

Enjolras had been twelve years old when he’d been chosen for the Games. Small and quiet and fierce as the sun, he’d stalked to the stage with barely a tremble, eyes slitted against the suddenly silent crowd. District 1 was Career—kids fought each other for the honor of volunteering, voices overlapping as they shouted to be heard.

His was the first year no one volunteered.

His was the first year a Career tribute refused to join a pack.

His was the first year _no one_ betted on 1 making it to the end—no one except eight-year-old know-nothings like Grantaire, watching every night with shaking hands, feeling an unexpected heat unfold piece by piece inside his chest until he was overflowing with…something. Some feeling he couldn’t name, not for many, many more years.

And his was the _only_ year a single boy, a child of twelve, killed every. Single. Tribute. When the camera panned away from the final body, Enjolras had stood there, spattered in her blood, panting and hurt and _glaring_ up at the sky as the cannon sounded and the trumpets began to blare. He’d worn red ever since.

Like tonight, the color drawing every eye. “District 1!” someone shouted. “Cosette! Angel!” and “Enjolras! _L'enfant terrible_!”

The light of the camera haloed twin heads of golden hair as Enjolras moved to stand next to his young protégé, his practical _twin_. Together, they shone like distant and terrible and blood-soaked stars. The crowd bellowed its approval.

And Grantaire’s heart gave a familiar, aching twist of bitter longing.


	2. Cosette

_Talk us through this, Templesmith. What are we seeing?_

_The most extraordinary thing, my good Flickerman—absolutely extraordinary! It seems the angel of District 1 is using the chaos of the Cornucopia to turn against her allies. Why, if you look closely— Yes! Yes! There, did you see?_

_Right between the shoulders!_

_Right between the shoulders and up into the heart; Cosette has just taken down her third tribute in as many minutes. Two more to go and she will have vanquished all of her allies before the Games have even truly begun…_

**

**Before:**

“Why do you want to win?”

“I don’t.” Cosette looked up at his low noise of disgust. “I _don’t_. I don’t care about any of that.”

Enjolras leaned in, elbows propped against his knees, eyes narrowed on her. They were alone in the last train car. It was late, the countryside nothing but a dark blur as they bulleted past vast open plains and sloping hillsides. She’d been told that the land here was a deep gold this time of year, wheat stretching out as far as the eye could see. She’d been told that it was beautiful.

She was going to her death, Cosette thought. How beautiful could it be?

“You volunteered,” Enjolras pointed out. “ _You_ chose this.”

Cosette swallowed, dropping her eyes. Her own mentor was asleep somewhere in the gorgeously outfitted train. Her fellow tribute—Glass? Glyph? She wasn’t sure she wanted to remember his name—was nowhere to be seen. Enjolras was hard and cold and a little frightening, but he was the only one who looked at her as if she were a human being, even if she could tell he didn’t think she was a very good one. “I chose this,” Cosette echoed quietly. She thread her fingers through the hem of her fine silk top. “I know. I know I did.”

“Look at me,” he snapped, and she did. She didn’t think anyone could have disobeyed him. Enjolras was only seven years older, but his voice held a command only matched by President Snow. “Your mentor is less than useless, and you have no friends here. It doesn’t matter how pretty people say you are, or how sweet you convince them you can be—without someone on your side, you don’t stand a chance.” She flinched, not bothering to hide how deeply the truth cut. 

Enjolras leaned back again, hands folded together, blond curls falling into his eyes. In the faint dim of the empty car, he could have been carved from stone. “You’re going to die out there on your own,” he said. “The least you can do is be honest about why.”

“It isn’t the money, if that’s what you’re thinking. Papa was a victor a long, long time ago. We don’t need anything.”

“The glory, then.” His voice was absolutely flat.

Cosette’s shoulders tightened. Her stomach was twisting so hard it almost hurt to breathe. “I don’t care about glory,” she said. “It’s just a word; it doesn’t exist.”

“The fame? The attention?” She shook her head faintly. “Were you _bored_?” Enjolras demanded. “Did you decide to volunteer to kill and die because you were—”

“I was _angry_!” she snapped, suddenly on her feet. Her hands were clenched into fists, Cosette realized with a guilty start, one raised as if to strike him. To strike _Enjolras_ , the boy murderer himself. She dropped her hand, refusing to look away even as she flushed.

He studied her for a long, long time. Then, slowly, his grim mouth pulled into a quirking smile. “Okay,” Enjolras said, voice losing its coldness all at once. The marble mask melted away, and he seemed almost…approachable in the dim light of the tribute’s car. “Angry we can work with.”

 

**After:**

Her cheeks hurt from smiling, and the mingled fury and guilt was like a rising tide inside her belly. Cosette stared out across the crowd; she could feel the eyes of the families of dead children on her. _Hating_ her. Enjolras stood just a few paces to her left, and she didn’t have to look to know that they were glaring at him too.

Well. Let them glare. It was their right.

“…winner of the 74th Annual Hunger Games!” the announcer crowed again, and the gathered crowd broke into sporadic applause. It rose and rose, sweeping across the square as Cosette stared out into the darkness, swallowing against the low cry that wanted to break free. She was supposed to give her speech, but the words were sticking in her throat. What could she say to these people? What could she say to the eager Capitol watching from home? The truth? Impossible. She hated them; she hated _all_ of them. She wanted to burn this place to the ground.

She wanted—

Her gaze lifted, meeting the eyes of a little girl, no more than six. The families of the fallen tributes were standing on raised platforms to the left and right of the square. The faces of their dead children, the tributes Cosette had befriended and murdered within minutes of each other, were on the screens behind them. She could see the familiar face of District 2’s female tribute out of the corner of her eye, even as she locked gazes with the girl’s little sister.

They had the same narrow features, Cosette realized. The same heavy brows. Within a few years, this girl would look _just_ like the District 2 tribute. ( _Blood in her hair, blood on her face, blood in those dead, staring eyes._ ) The girl’s cheeks were streaked with tears.

She couldn’t do this.

Cosette turned on her heel, eyes stinging, and fled from the stage. The announcer was still talking, and she could hear her mentor’s hissed, “ _Cosette!_ ” followed by Enjolras’s, “Go after her and I will happily strangle you.”

She dropped her head and pushed through the heavy curtains, stumbling into the cool, welcome darkness of backstage. The noise of the crowd went muffled, indistinct, as the curtains swallowed up the world outside, but her head was still spinning. She could taste blood in her mouth, could smell nothing but its sweet stench, and oh God, _God_ , she was going to lose herself in the memory again.

“Stop it, _stop it_ ,” Cosette hissed. She tightened her hands into fists, digging her nails into the flesh of her palms as if those eight pin-pricks of pain could keep her tethered to the here and now. Her stomach roiled and her eyes burned.

She had to get out of here; there was nowhere to _go_.

She stumbled a step, the darkness blurry with hot tears. She could still feel that girls’ eyes on her.

And then a soft hand caught her wrist and she was being reeled gently back. Cosette swung around with a startled hiss, already striking. She caught the boy on a pointed chin; the _smack_ of fist meeting flesh blazed through her, igniting a thrill of fury that was immediately quelled when she met a startled pair of huge hazel-green eyes.

The boy blinked. She blinked back, a tear rolling down her cheek. Then, suddenly, the boy offered her the shyest, sweetest smile she had ever seen as he ducked his head. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“I wasn’t frightened,” Cosette said. She reached up to dash away her tears with her free hand; he was still holding her other loose fist in a careful grip. She didn’t mind as much as she should have. It was…nice. “I was just startled, that’s all. I hate this. I’m sorry.”

“For what? For crying?” He had a long, lanky body, shoulders rounded forward as if he were used to trying to seem shorter than he was. Every inch of skin she could see was covered in freckles. “Don’t be sorry for crying. I cry all the time.” He paused, then blinked rapidly as if his brain had just caught up with his mouth. “Ah, except, well, oh, I probably shouldn’t have, ah, you didn’t hear that. I didn’t say that. Why did I say that? Oh, _hell_.”

She was surprised into a laugh. Impulsively, Cosette turned her hand to squeeze the boy’s fingers. She smiled, and his return grin was so wide and honest it made her feel as if she were staring into the sun. “I didn’t hear anything,” she promised. “I’m Cosette.”

“Oh, I know who you are.” He paused. “But not in a creepy way.” Pause. “You know, despite how thoroughly creepy that sounded.” Pause. “…oh, hell, _again_.”

“I’m sensing a pattern here.” The applause just beyond the heavy curtains grew, and Cosette could hear the heavy tread of boots as the rest of her team moved across the stage. She caught the boy’s arm desperately, surging close. “They’re— Is there anywhere we can— I don’t want to—”

He squeezed her fingers, ginger brows drawing together. “Follow me,” he said.

And for some reason she couldn’t explain, some madness she couldn’t name…Cosette did.


	3. Combeferre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for a brief discussion of victor-related prostitution and violence.

_The night was dark, and still. It was so quiet he could hear the rustle of leaves on the breeze and the steady hum of wires. He’d strung them up around his little burrow to form a neat, evenly spaced grid. Even injured, useless leg dragging behind him, tattered pants soaked with blood, he’d taken pride in his work._

_The crosshatch gleam of electrified wires cast a shadow over his face and cracked glasses. His breaths came in slow, shallow pants._

_Somewhere nearby, a boy was hunting him._

_He wouldn’t find easy prey waiting._

**

“Excuse me,” Combeferre murmured, slipping through the crowd. The mayor of District 3 had pulled together an impressive victory feast despite the year’s meager harvest. The lavish display practically glittered under the hall’s twinkling lights—cakes and whole roast game and a fully dressed hog with a playfully snarling snout. There were fountains of champagne straight from the Capitol and fruits and flowers raised in greenhouses. The tables groaned under the weight of excess; there was enough food there to feed half the District for a week.

It was a waste. It was such a waste.

“Excuse me,” he said again. He felt like a needle threading cloth as he passed politely through hubs of conversation. Enjolras was only a few yards away, standing beside the latest victor. The two of them were turned slightly toward each other, heads tilted close—hers tipped up, his down—as if in deep conversation. Combeferre couldn’t help but see the way the familiar coldness didn’t touch his friend’s face as he spoke. If anything, his lips twitched in amusement at something the girl murmured and his expression looked briefly…fond.

 _What are you doing?_ Combeferre thought as he purposefully put himself in their line of sight. (No one who had startled Enjolras once was careless enough to do it again.) He cleared his throat.

Enjolras glanced up, meeting his eyes for an instant. The subtle dip of his chin was the only acknowledgement Combeferre needed. He moved smoothly to join them, adjusting his glasses. Combeferre offered his best harried half-smile. “I apologize for interrupting,” he said with a feigned breathless hitch, as if he had been hurrying. They’d shared enough victory tours between them that the words tripped easily off his tongue. “But I’m afraid there is a matter of some urgency regarding your prep team that—”

“Combeferre,” Enjolras unexpectedly interrupted. This wasn’t part of the plan. “I wanted to introduce you to Cosette Fauchelevant.”

 _What are you **doing**?_ he thought again, even as he smiled. “Ms. Fauchelevant, of course. It is a pleasure.”

“Please,” she said, clasping his offered hand. She was just as pretty in person—prettier, even, than in the vids—and her eyes were surprisingly bright and lively. Fevered, almost—enough that Joly would have pressed the back of his hand to her flushed cheeks in concern. “Call me Cosette. Any friend of Enjolras is a friend of mine.”

“That is very kind,” Combeferre said, automatically deflecting. He’d had nearly ten years to perfect the gentle lies. “But I’m afraid you are mistaken. As much as I admire him, I would never presume to call Enjolras a friend.”

“I would, presume,” Enjolras said.

 _Only_ years of studied mannerisms and careful control kept the surprise off of Combeferre’s face. He cut his eyes toward Enjolras, letting him see the question in them before he swallowed it in a meaningless smile. “You flatter me,” Combeferre murmured, adjusting his glasses again.

“Not half so much as you deserve. Please, excuse us, Cosette,” Enjolras added courteously. That was a shock in itself—Enjolras was a great many things, some terrible, some glorious, but polite had never been one of them. “My friend and I must talk.”

She smiled, blue eyes moving between them warmly. There was no artifice in her expression—it was almost enough to make Combeferre believe she _meant_ it. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Combeferre.”

“And you, Cosette,” he said. He turned to fall in beside Enjolras, keeping the careful distance of a cautious man between them. He started in about the prep team before they were more than three paces away and continued his anxious monologue across the ballroom, up the stairs, down the hall, and through the passageway. It wasn’t until they were safely within the four stone walls of their secret meeting room that he dropped the pretense.

“What are you thinking, Enjolras?” Combeferre demanded, turning on him. They played these roles for a reason. They were victors; the eyes of the Capitol were always on them. Some bonds of friendship were almost expected (and thank the spirits for that, as Courfeyrac had never been good at feigning indifference) but from the beginning, he and Enjolras had taken care not to let their own closeness show. Only the Amis knew the full truth. “That was reckless.”

Enjolras’s blue eyes flashed with reflexive anger…and then he sighed and rubbed at his face with the heel of his cupped hands. He looked, all at once, ten years younger and a hundred ages more exhausted. “I know,” he said quietly. Then, unexpectedly, “I am sorry, Combeferre.”

Combeferre made a low noise, trapped in the back of his throat, and impulsively reached for his oldest friend to pull him in for a fierce hug. Enjolras jerked back, resisting at first (as always), but Combeferre was nothing if not patient. He wheeled the other man in bit by bit, sliding his arms around him despite his muttered protests; his fingers dug into golden hair and he let himself wrap around Enjolras tightly. It had been a brutal Games. He could sense the strain of it in every line of the other man’s body. _You take this too much to heart_ , he wanted to say, but the soothing nonsense wouldn’t come. The words were lies and Enjolras would reject them out of hand; it was better to just hold firm through Enjolras’s resistance and _force_ him to take what he so clearly needed.

Slowly, finally, Enjolras stopped struggling and began to melt against him. His arms crept around Combeferre’s waist, fingers tangling into the back of his shirt as if, now that he had relented to the embrace, Enjolras was afraid Combeferre would pull away.

There were so few people who touched Enjolras like this, Combeferre thought with a familiar breathless pain. Gently. Kindly. With true affection. Enjolras was a symbol, a god, a distant cruel figurehead to some and the secret beacon of revolution to others. His skin must have been starving with its need.

That, more than anything, was why Combeferre kept him close, even as he gently scolded. “You are being too incautious and I don’t even know the plan,” he murmured against his friend’s temple. “What are you thinking, Enjolras? I can’t help you if you don’t keep me aware.”

“I know.” Enjolras shifted and Combeferre impulsively tightened his arms, but he wasn’t trying to pull away. Instead he sighed, breath hot against his collarbone, and rested his forehead against Combeferre’s shoulder. “I couldn’t find a way to get word to you in time; it’s a recent decision.” He looked up. “I think she’s one of us, Combeferre.”

“You _think_.” That wasn’t like him.

Enjolras made an annoyed noise and dropped his head. “I know.”

“We have procedures for recruitment,” Combeferre pointed out. “We have _tests_. Marius only just passed. You are taking a risk letting Cosette see so much so soon.”

“I know,” he said again.

“It isn’t like you to be incautious.”

“ _I know_.” Enjolras made a noise like an angry cat and finally pulled away; his curls were mussed from Combeferre’s caress, standing up wild around his pale face. “But we’re running out of time, and I need someone beside me in 1 that I can trust.”

 _We’re running out of time_. Yes, that was very true, wasn’t it? The 74th Hunger Games had concluded, and before long, the announcement of the Quarter Quell would be broadcast live across Panem. They’d been planning for this moment for a decade, ever since they were _children_ , and the clock was finally beginning to wind down.

It was…a disquieting thought.

Combeferre moved to a roughhewn cabinet in the far corner and crouched to pull out a bottle and two glasses. He brushed away the dust—they had not been touched for some time, since the last year one of the Amis had passed through District 3 for a victory tour—and began to pour. “You trust her. Yet you barely know her.” He turned, offering Enjolras a glass. “Why?”

Enjolras took the glass without a word, twisting it this way and that as he stared down into its red depths. Then he sighed. “She reminds me of me,” he admitted.

“Good god,” Combeferre said lightly. “I don’t know that the world can handle two of you.”

The child murderer of District 1, most feared victor in Panem, made a face at his best friend. “Ass,” he muttered.

“On occasion.” He leaned against the counter, taking a measured sip and studying Enjolras over the rim. Now that they were out of the public’s eye, the strain was very clear on Enjolras’s face. Combeferre had not been a mentor this year, but he’d watched the vids and heard the whispered reports. It had been a particularly brutal year; Panem had been on fire with their love for little Cosette with her pretty white dresses and sharp intelligence that was all smiles and hidden bite. Her betrayal of her entire group of allies within moments of the starting bell had been unprecedented. It had been a long time since the Hunger Games had seen such ruthless efficiency.

Combeferre wondered if it had been Enjolras who’d told her to murder her fellow tribute from 1—a boy he was supposed to be mentoring alongside Cosette—first. He supposed he didn’t have to look into Enjolras’s eyes to know the answer to that.

He cleared his throat. “I am sorry,” Combeferre began, but Enjolras quieted his sympathy with an angry noise. No, of course. He sighed and took a sip of wine; it tasted bitter on his tongue, but he swallowed and forced himself to take another measured sip. Things were quiet between them for a long moment, the silence growing increasingly comfortable. Finally, Enjolras let out a breath and leaned forward, resting his forearms against the counter. He let his head drop.

Combeferre smiled sadly to himself.

“The Quarter Quell,” Enjolras began.

“The Quarter Quell,” Combeferre agreed. “Have our informants been able to confirm the parameters of the Quell?”

Enjolras scoffed. “Not with reliable consistency. It seems President Snow is taking care to guard the chest and its contents well. They cannot even get close.”

“So we will have no way of knowing whether our gamble has paid off until the announcement.” 

“No. I have spent nights trying to think of ways to get past the guards.”

Combeferre took another sip of his wine, then carefully set the glass aside. “You shouldn’t. We have no reason to assume that we have failed. We switched the Quells _years_ ago. We must move forward on the assumption that everything is going according to plan and that we _will_ be reaped. Pushing our informants to risk capture by trying to confirm the switch would just be—”

He looked up, blue eyes flashing. “You are not saying anything I don’t already know, Combeferre.”

“And yet I can’t help but feel you’re not listening, so forgive me as I _continue_ saying what you already know. We have enough to worry about without adding problems to our steadily-growing pile. And _you_ already have an astonishing amount of work ahead of you, especially if you plan to see Cosette re-reaped beside you.”

Enjolras straightened. His eyes were narrowed, but his expression was thoughtful rather than angry. His temper was incredible and easily riled, and yet Combeferre couldn’t recall a single time it had been unleashed without merit.

Well. Unleashed on _him_ , at least. And that, he supposed, was the core of their current problem.

“What are you saying?” Enjolras asked. “What problem have you detected?”

“We have a public relations problem.” Enjolras gave a dismissive hiss of breath, but Combeferre simply held up his hand. “No, I know how you feel about that, but the fact still remains that your image is far too…” He searched carefully for the right words. “ _Harsh_ for the majority of the Capitol. They’re afraid of you. Thirteen will be afraid of you too. They may not be willing to trust a man who seems to have so little to lose. Cosette at least has her father to keep her from seeming too unreachable, but you? What do you have?” And then, because that wasn’t _fair_ , he added, “No. Let me rephrase that. What do you have that the world is allowed to see?”

Enjolras didn’t have to answer him; they both knew the answer to that. He was the _L'enfant terrible_ of District 1. He was the most feared victor that had ever existed. He was a _symbol_. Symbols weren’t allowed to be human, and Enjolras had spent his life molding himself into that ideal of a cold, aloof firebrand.

And now it was coming to bite them on the ass.

“We need to humanize you before the Games if we’re going to get the groundswelling of support we need. The districts are mostly with us, but the everyday people of the Capitol are—”

“Fuck the Capitol,” Enjolras snarled.

“—are certain you’re more a particularly beautiful rabid dog than a man. We need them to love you as much as they fear you, Enjolras.”

Enjolras shoved away from the counter and stalked to the far side of the room, then back again. He’d always paced when agitated. Combeferre remembered noticing that for the first time thirteen years ago, watching with a strange breathless anxiety as the little boy he didn’t know paced bloody and fierce across the jungle floor. They were both older now—adults, at least in name. And yet looking at his oldest friend, Combeferre could still see that frightened and furious little boy.

He waited, watching, letting Enjolras work out his reflexive anger. Finally, Enjolras turned back to him, shoving his fingers through his hair. “What do you suggest?”

Combeferre folded his hands. “Jehan believes you need to stop seeing clients in the Capitol, for starters. The men who seek you out spread stories that we can’t spend the energy quieting.”

Enjolras scoffed. “That’s not a hardship,” he said. “I’d like nothing more than to tell them to go fuck each other bloody instead.” Combeferre couldn’t hide his wince. “But we still need the information I get from them. If I’m to cut myself off from the pigs, that only leaves Jehan and Courfeyrac as our main gateways of information.”

 _Jehan and Courfeyrac and Enjolras_. It was cruel, so cruel, to be beautiful and at the mercy of so many. Combeferre carefully dropped his hands out of sight before clenching them, _hating_ himself for what he was preparing to say. He’d been struggling with it for weeks, ever since Jehan had made his last report. “Yes,” he said slowly, quietly. “Jehan and Courfeyrac will have to—” The words caught briefly; he swallowed. “It is only for a short time. They’re willing to double their efforts to make up for the stream of information we will lose from your retirement from public life.”

He didn’t want to imagine the sorts of men who were drawn to Enjolras—the kinds of men who wanted to face down the child murderer and attempt to _tame_ him—touching Courfeyrac. It made the bile rise in his throat and every protective instinct flare inside of him. There was _no one_ like Courfeyrac. There was no one as sweet or as darkly cheerful or as willing to give himself to the cause. Where Enjolras fought for Panem’s freedom out of anger, and Combeferre out of the knowledge that it was _right_ , Courfeyrac fought for love of the very people who would cheer his death.

It was impossible. It was intolerable.

He clenched his fists until his nails dug into his palms, and he fucking _tolerated it_.

“So, you see,” Combeferre continued, voice remarkably calm, “everything is taken care of there.”

“And the rest of it?” Enjolras demanded. He was too agitated himself to read the struggle in Combeferre, thank the spirits. “How do you plan to turn me into some…figure of _sympathy_ to these people?”

Combeferre drew a careful breath, then another, forcing himself to straighten fully. He looked up, meeting Enjolras’s gaze head-on. “We have a plan,” he said. Then, after only a moment’s hesitation, “It involves Grantaire.”


	4. Courfeyrac

_He was trembling, slick fingers gripping the branches as he tried to pull himself to safety. Blood dripped from the open wound in his side, and he needed to put space between him and the dead body, needed to hole up somewhere and bind off his injuries, but…_

_But…_

_He looked down, seeing the awkward twist of her legs through the canopy. He could just make out the gutted hole in her middle, entrails spooling about her hips like vines. He had done that. He had punched the hook deep into her belly and yanked the life right out of her._

_A cannon boomed overhead. He was shaking and slick with blood, only a quarter of it his own. The leaves rustled on a breeze, hiding and revealing her by turns as the hovercraft appeared with a soft hum._

_He’d never wanted so badly to cry._

**

The Peacekeeper’s hands were cold and clammy as they slid along his bare thigh, but Courfeyrac didn’t mind—he’d been through a hell of a lot worse in the name of the Cause. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder what was taking Enjolras so long.

“You’re so fucking beautiful.” The man’s breath wasn’t the freshest, either, puffing in moist clouds about Courfeyrac’s face. Courfeyrac made a low noise that passed for pleased—he knew; he’d perfected it ages ago—and arched in pretend welcome. He’d already gotten the information he needed from the squat, bull-faced man, but it was never a good idea to mentally check out in the middle of an assignation.

As difficult as that was proving tonight.

The curtains billowed on a salt-heavy breeze. Just outside, on the balcony that wrapped around his home in the Victor’s Village, the shells he and his long-dead sisters had strung together clacked and sang like a chorus of mermaids. He used to sit on the rail of a house a good deal like this, back when his family was still with him. They’d laugh and tease and shuck oysters as they watched the endless surge of the sea.

“A pearl,” Marie-Therese had said once, reaching out to flick his dark curls with a briny finger. “Make a wish, fin-head.”

“I wish…I had better sisters.”

He could still hear her voice in the clatter of those shells. He could hear their laughter in the crash of the tide. The tiny house was long gone, but he’d brought their whispers with him; they followed him wherever he went. And the pearl, lost in the arena years ago when he still had a family to fight for, didn’t need to be present to bear his second, silent hope.

_I wish I could save us all._

Courfeyrac turned his face from an unpleasantly hot kiss and glanced at the moon through the billowing curtains. It was round and white as any pearl.

“So…fucking…” A hand slid toward his cock, fingers grasping, and Courfeyrac forced himself back into the moment with a breathless laugh. He caught the Peacekeeper’s wrist and lifted his fingers to his mouth, teasing with a swipe of his tongue before letting them fuck past his parted lips.

“But I want to touch you,” the man murmured, even as he pushed his fingers deep enough to gag. His eyes were hugely dilated, color rising in a delicate watercolor over his bristly skin.

Courfeyrac hollowed his cheeks, _sucking_ , bobbing his head expertly. There were tricks to every assignation—tips he and Jehan swapped on lazy afternoons—to get marks off painlessly. He could bear the touch if he had to, but what was the point in forbearance if he did not?

The Peacekeeper gasped and arched, hips rocking up as Courfeyrac used teeth, tongue. The man’s cock was straining against the slick cotton of his underwear. It jerked every time Courfeyrac took his fingers all the way down, then slowly pulled back to let them spring free with a liquid _pop_.

“Mm,” Courfeyrac purred, nipping at the slick, meaty pads of his fingers. He briefly considered sliding his hand past straining cotton to get this over with—but really, how late could Enjolras be? Anyway, once he did that, the Peacekeeper would want his mouth there, too, and he preferred to avoid that if he could. “Gods, you make me so hot. Later, I want to see you fuck my mouth— _use_ me. I love it when you _use me_. Show me what it would be like.”

Dirty talk worked every time.

He dove back onto those greedy fingers and sent up a mental cheer when the man cried out and pushed deeper, hips rolling restlessly.

“Yes, yes, fuck, yes. Your mouth, your fucking _mouth_.” He was writhing with each clever twist of Courfeyrac’s tongue, rubbing back against his sheets, then jerking forward, cock painting a growing patch of precome on white cotton. “I am going to fucking ream you. I am going to fuck that fucking _mouth_ so hard you choke on me.”

Courfeyrac hummed in faux-blissful agreement and swallowed around his thrusting fingers. Feeling neighborly, he slid his own hands up to run encouraging fingers along trembling thighs. _Come on, now_ , he thought with a perfectly timed moan. _Get there if you’re going._

“You’re fucking worth every credit I— Your gods-damned mouth is—”

“Am I interrupting something?”

Enjolras’s voice was perfectly flat, perfectly dry. Bottle it up and ship it around Panem and no one would ever get laid again—Enjolras had mastered the mood-killer.

Courfeyrac hid a laugh in a fake-shocked noise, looking up to meet a flat blue gaze. He gasped a breath that was likely too dramatic, but, whatever. The Peacekeeper was too busy scrambling out of bed to notice. “Enjolras! Ah gods, it isn’t what you think!” Courfeyrac cried, one hand splayed comically wide over his heart.

A perfect blond brow arched. Courfeyrac waggled his own playfully, the Peacekeeper’s back safely to him.

“Now see here!” the Peacekeeper began.

“I’m certain that is the case, _Courfeyrac_ ,” Enjolras agreed sharply; he spoke his lines with utter conviction. “Because I was _thinking_ you had given yourself to a lowly lieutenant,” gods, it was amazing the way he could sneer words as if spitting venom; Courfeyrac could only shiver and offer two enthusiastic thumbs up, “when Guard-Captain Melbourn had specifically requested our company tonight.”

That brought the blustering Peacekeeper up short. “Guard-Captain— Gods.” He turned, frantic, and Courfeyrac quickly pulled the sheets up to cover his naked body in virginal dismay. “You didn’t tell me you were meant to— I had no idea that— I can hardly be held responsible for—” He cursed and shoved his (wet) fingers through his hair. “You fucking _slut_.”

Enjolras grabbed the meaty first before it could swing. “ _Leave_ ,” Enjolras snapped, glowering as he met the Peacekeeper’s eyes. “While you’ve got little more bruised than your ego. We will not speak of this if you go quietly. And for gods’ sake, take your clothes with you.”

The Peacekeeper looked ready to argue, but all he had to do was meet those _blazing_ blue eyes and he backed down. Enjolras had no real power—he was just another Victor, like any of the Amis—but no one ever seemed to remember that when he _loomed_ like an avenging angel with murder on its mind.

“It’s not worth it,” the Peacekeeper told himself, scuttling for his clothes.

“We won’t tell a soul,” Courfeyrac promised. The man barely looked at him, but he made his expression match the earnest contrition in his voice. This was his field of mastery; this was where _he_ should have been feared. There was no one alive who could doubt the sincerity in his voice when he wished it. “Gustav, I swear it.”

The Peacekeeper straightened with a scowl, though Courfeyrac could read the creeping threads of doubt there. Good. That would go a long way toward soothing his rage when he had time to mull this over later. “You’d better,” the Peacekeeper snapped. Courfeyrac supposed it was too much to hope he wouldn’t feel the need to posture. “Though what the word of a _whore_ is worth, I don’t know.”

Enjolras took a single step forward; the Peacekeeper hurried from the room. They both stayed still, heads cocked like an inverted mirror, and listened as the heavy pound of the man’s feet followed him down the boardwalk and out across the dunes.

And then, silence.

Courfeyrac waited while Enjolras moved about the room, checking all the windows, then flicked on the cleverly hidden white noise machine. The steady hum made the room feel like womb, but at least they were free to talk. Once they were certain of privacy, Courfeyrac turned a crooked grin up at his best friend and said, “So? How much _is_ the word of a whore worth?”

“350 credits,” Enjolras said, grabbing Courfeyrac’s trousers from where they’d been abandoned by the door and shucking them at him. “Get dressed.”

“So low!” Courfeyrac teased. “Someone was bargain-minded.” He rose, slipping into the loose blue pants and a billowy white shirt fished from a woven hamper—practically the uniform of 4 during the cooler months. His seashell necklace clattered as he moved. “Couldn’t you have made him pay more, if only in deference to my delicate ego?”

“We had to make it tempting.”

He ruffled his dark mop of curls, wishing he had time to wade into the water lapping so close to the high foundation of his home. He could still smell the Peacekeeper’s rank scent on his skin. “Yes, but you didn’t have to make it _easy_.”

Enjolras made a familiar strangled noise. “Courfeyrac…”

Courfeyrac just laughed and reached out to loop an arm around Enjolras’s neck, bussing his cheek oh-so briefly before pulling back. Courfeyrac enjoyed being touched—craved it, especially craved honest caresses that were fueled by pure affection—but he was adept at reading the moods of others. It was what made him such a good spy: warm and open, empathetic and laughingly willing, endlessly devious. It was also what made him such a good friend to men like Enjolras.

Enjolras was never easy taking affection on anything but his own terms, and tonight was not a wise time to push.

“It is good to see you,” Courfeyrac said with a crooked smile. “And Cosette! Seeing you two together on that stage, it’s hard to imagine you’re not secret clones.” He gestured for Enjolras to take a seat—in the brightly colored papasan and _not_ on the rumpled mattress—as he went to fetch them both drinks. “You like her.”

“Somewhat reluctantly, yes.”

Courfeyrac arched a brow. “When is that not the case? Or do you shore up that reluctance for brand new Victors and a certain Amis languishing in the rolling hills of 12?”

Something unexpected and unreadable flashed in Enjolras’s eyes, there and gone again before Courfeyrac could puzzle it out. Enjolras dropped his chin, glaring daggers into the floorboards, and Courfeyrac was immediately contrite. “Peace, Enjolras,” he said quietly, moving on silent feet to stand before his friend. He offered the blue hurricane glass, but did not pass it over right away—instead, he waited until Enjolras lifted his head to meet his eyes. “I tease out of love, and because I am so glad to see you again outside of the false face of the Capitol. Be welcome to my home, brother.”

The formal words were a sort of ritual, soothing as the give and take of the tide.

Enjolras accepted the glass, gaze still locked with his. The strain was still there, worn about the corners of his eyes. “Thank you,” Enjolras said. Then, “…brother.” For a moment, with that word, the relaxed accents of the shore folk was evident, but he immediately stripped all that away, falling back into the clipped tones of 1 as he added, “But as chance would have it, I am here to speak about Grantaire.”

Courfeyrac sank into his seat, keeping the surprise off his face. “Oh?”

And Enjolras…Enjolras _fidgeted_. That was unexpected enough to have Courfeyrac leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. Enjolras was far more human around him and his other close friends than he ever allowed himself to be in public. When the eyes of the world were on him, he was a symbol; he was the child murderer of 1. He was _impossible_ and cold and distant and brightly burning as any star. But sitting here in Courfeyrac’s room, he was blushing and practically squirming in his seat.

It was _delicious_. Courfeyrac wished Combeferre was here to see.

“Weeeelll?” he said, deliberately drawing out the word in a playful tone. Enjolras looked up at that, glowering, and Courfeyrac barely swallowed a laugh. Gods, he loved his friends. “Please don’t keep me in such suspense, Enjolras! What is happening between you and the lovely and irreplaceable _R_?”

“Combeferre should have told you his plot,” he muttered darkly. “When he called you, he might have mentioned it and saved me the headache.”

Courfeyrac frowned and set his glass aside. “Combeferre never called me,” he said slowly. He’d been expecting the call, truthfully; it was part of their routine. It was…it was what they _did_. Every night after a major event in their district (and a Victory tour pretty much _defined_ major event) they rang each other up late into the evening and gossiped like two old aunties until the sun rose. It was one of the things he most looked forward to. Last night, he’d waited (and waited, and waited) for the call, restlessly pacing about his home—trying to write or read or watch vids as the moon rose and sank. He’d finally fallen asleep with his head pillowed on his arms, slumped over his desk. The phone perched hopefully next to his elbow had stayed ominously silent.

It was the first time Combeferre had forgotten him; he’d been trying to swallow back the bitterness of that disappointment all day. And now…this?

“What was he to tell me?” Courfeyrac said slowly.

Enjolras scowled. “He _said_ he would take care of it.”

“Then he is taking care of it,” Courfeyrac soothed. “You know Combeferre. There is nothing on heaven and earth that he cannot do when he sets that huge brain to it.” Enjolras was still fidgeting, so Courfeyrac reached out and gently placed his hand over his friends’. Enjolras’s fingers stilled. “Tell me the plan in your own words, brother,” he murmured. “And I will put my shoulder to the wheel and see that it is accomplished.”

Enjolras looked up through his lashes, then down again. His scowl barely faded, but Courfeyrac knew that particular worried crease on his brow. This wasn’t the usual vagaries of the Capitol they were facing: this was something completely new. He braced himself for whatever Enjolras had to say.

There was _no way_ he could have braced himself enough.

“Grantaire and I are to be engaged.”

**

In the end, Courfeyrac made Enjolras repeat the plan three times…and then one time more, just to make certain he hadn’t hallucinated it. It sounded like something Jehan would dream up, but it was strange that _Combeferre_ had signed off on such a madcap scheme. There had to be more to it than Enjolras knew—there had to be more than Combeferre had not shared.

The moment Enjolras left to return to the train, Courfeyrac scrambled for his phone. He had Combeferre’s number memorized from years of hours-long conversations; within moments, the line was ringing.

And ringing.

And ringing.

And ringing.

Courfeyrac glanced at the time, frowning. Combeferre was expecting his call. This was what they _always_ did; it was practically sacrosanct. And yet the phone continued to ring, unanswered. Courfeyrac hung up with a frown, then dialed Combeferre’s number again. 

The phone rang.

And rang.

And rang.

Finally, Courfeyrac gently set the phone in its cradle. He frowned down at the desk, hearing the crash of the waves on the shore and the gentle _clack clack clack_ of the strings of shells twisting in the breeze. His chest hurt, lungs three sizes too small, and all at once he felt sick and worn and _filthy_ , as if the Peacekeeper’s hands had left a thin film of shame over him. He wanted—

He didn’t know. He didn’t know what he wanted.

 _Stop it_ , he told himself. _Just…stop it_. Dragging his fingers through his dark hair, Courfeyrac picked up the phone with strangely trembling hands and dialed Jehan. The other boy answered on the eighth ring. “Hello, my beautiful caller, whomever you may be,” he said. His voice was low and husky with sleep. “I am pleased to welcome you into my slumber tonight.”

Courfeyrac glanced at the clock and winced. “Sorry,” he said. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t think about—well. Hello.”

“Courfeyrac; hearing your voice is worth any sudden awakening,” Jehan said with a laugh. “You traipsed into my dreams on the sweetest of feet. How may I help you?”

“Did you talk to Combeferre yesterday? Or today?”

There was a long pause. “Yes,” Jehan said, voice dropping low and quiet. _Gentle_ , damn him. “I spoke with him just before I came to bed.”

“…so he’s home and well. That’s…good. Okay, that’s good.”

“Oh, _Courfeyrac_.”

Courfeyrac closed his eyes against an unexpected burn of tears. _Stop it_ , he told himself again fiercely. It was _good_ to know that Combeferre was all right, that Courfeyrac was just being ignored rather than any, darker, alternative. “That’s good,” he said again.

There was a soft sigh over the line, full of heartbreak. “Oh… _Courfeyrac_ ,” Jehan said again.

He sank into a seat and drew up his legs. His bare heels whispered across the fabric and he wrapped his arms around his middle as if he could keep himself from flying apart into the night. “Talk to me, Jehan,” Courfeyrac murmured, closing his eyes. The moon was bright and far too invasive. “Tell me a story.”

And gently, softly, understanding as ever—Jehan did.


	5. Joly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finding Joly's voice was not easy--sorry it took so long! Just one more chapter before E/R takes off.
> 
> Warnings: Joly calls himself "crazy". If this sort of language (or descriptions of mental confusion) triggers you, please skip this chapter.

_In the wake of this year’s disastrous Games, head Gamemaker, Yolo Young, has officially resigned her position. Capitol firecracker and rising star Seneca Crane has been appointed to take her place._

_Yolo was unavailable for comment, but Seneca’s statement upon his predecessor’s departure left little room for interpretation—never again would the Games see such a quick and brutal end._

_“The use of trackerjacker venom injected directly in the bloodstream of all tributes before the starting canon was a grave error in judgment,” Seneca proclaimed. “Its use saw tributes falling to their own weapons before they even left the Cornucopia. Winning the Games became less about cunning and skill and more about endurance. That is not the principle upon which the Games were built; that is not our great purpose.”_

_The Capitol must only agree. Spirits are at an all-time low even as the post-victory season kicks into full swing. One party-goer said, “It was harder than expected, you see, watching the tributes we’d come to root for just…fall, one right after the other. The way they screamed, and clawed at their faces as the venom worked its madness into them—terrible, just terrible. I hope things are back up to snuff for next year’s Games! It’ll take the whole year to get over the sounds they made, at any rate.”_

_Winning tribute, Christophe Joly, is still unavailable for comment. For now, we can only guess as to how he alone had the mental and physical fortitude to survive what drove his fellow Tributes to take their own lives rather than face what must have been truly debilitating agony._

**

His insides were twisted into elaborate knots. His skin was a shell, and his bones were a cage, keeping all his disparate parts in place.

_Tibia, fibula, femur, clavicle…_

The familiar words were almost as soothing as morphling. Copacetic. Combeferre had taught him the trick of ordering his mind a long time ago, back when the drugs were the only things keeping him in one piece. Now it helped to fall back into those old habits like a lovers’ embrace, threading thoughts into orderly lists when the world became too much for him to bear. It was something, at any rate.

The stage gleamed sterile before him, the giant screens flashing colors and light behind. He tried to make it seem as if he were listening. Cosette was midway through her speech, eyes locked on middle distance, expression a white mask. A death’s mask, Jehan would have said; Joly didn’t want to think of death.

Ironic, since he couldn’t seem to think of anything else.

 _Focus,_ he told himself, twining his hands together. The skin felt raw and red, _itchy_ over the fine bones of his fingers. _Phalanges. Metacarpals. Carpals._ So many tiny, delicate bones built brick by brick beneath an endless roadmap of veins, and if he had to list them all in his head to keep from turning on his heel and bolting, _he would._

He would, he would, he would.

Joly closed his eyes, tuning out her strangely flat voice, and tried to count his heartbeats. They were coming too fast, though, racing within the frantic clutch of his chest, so he switched to his breathing. That he could control, imagining each breath as a color. Breathe in. Red air filling his lungs. Pause. Breathe out. Cool and blue and _calm._

If Bossuet were here instead of in his own district, he’d grip Joly’s shoulders in his big hands and dig his thumbs into the ever-tightening muscle. _Come on, sweetheart_ , he’d say, voice pitched low for Joly alone. _You’re hardly even trying._

Breathe in. Red. Breathe out. Blue. Cosette’s blood-drenched victory speech was nothing but words, and he’d agreed from the beginning to sacrifice his own mentees. He’d been part of the _plan._

“…the honor and glory of District 1.”

Joly slowly blinked open his eyes, watching the young girl standing on the edge of the stage. Enjolras was not far behind, his eyes locked on his protégé; he’d been the one to approach the Amis with the plan, spinning it for them in an elaborate web of _do what we must_ and _for the good of the people_. Joly had sat on the edge of his seat as if a single breath could send him spiraling off into flight, listening with dawning horror as his friends one by one agreed to sabotage their own tributes’ chances of survival in the name of Cosette Fauchelevent.

“Aye,” Musichetta murmured, tucking back a dark braid.

“Aye,” Jehan said with a wistful sigh, fingers thread together, lashes dipped as if he couldn’t bear the shame of meeting anyone’s’ eyes.

Grantaire let out a haggard breath. “We’re fucking monsters one and all,” he said, and that small resistance was enough to send hope winging through Joly’s chest—but then R had lifted his hands with a bitter smile, fending off Enjolras’s fierce glare. “Don’t start, Apollo. You’ve already convinced me. But if we’re going to agree to sacrifice a bunch of _kids_ at the altar of your perfect tribute, we’ve got to face the facts. We’re little better than the scum we’re trying to take down.”

“We aren’t the ones on trial right now,” Enjolras barked, and only Courfeyrac’s hand on his elbow kept him from lurching out of his chair. “Not this time. Our time will come later.”

“We’ll be fucking heroes,” Bahorel said, and only Joly saw the way Bossuet’s mobile mouth twisted into a bitter frown as he murmured, “If our new world sees us that way, we’ve failed.”

 _Bossuet._ Back in the present, dragged out of the sea of memory and time that could so easily drown the unwary, Joly dragged in a serrated breath and imagined those hands holding tight to his shoulders. He imagined Musichetta’s fingertips brushing the brown hair out of his eyes and ghosting across his temples. Grounding him. Keeping him from floating up and up and up like a kite whose string has snapped. Cosette had stepped away at some point ( _you’re losing time_ , he told himself, counting the seconds between the thought and the mounting dread) and the mayor of 6 was at the mic again. Applause boomed in a hollow drumbeat all around him, and Joly lifted his arms to join in—he clasped his hands once, twice as the screens behind him flared painfully bright.

Over his shoulder, the tributes he’d betrayed watched him with dead eyes from giant screens. He saw their faces in pinpricks of light painted across his lids.

Fuck, he needed a drink.

He needed something a hell of a lot stronger than a drink.

Joly passed trembling fingers over his face as the applause began to die, and when he looked up at the stage again, Enjolras was watching. His blue gaze was locked on Joly, blond brows drawn into a sharp V, full lips compressed into a straight line. Enjolras’s cheekbones were so high it was impossible for Joly _not_ to see the shape of his skull beneath the cream-and-roses skin. The shadows cast by the flashing bulbs deepened his sockets, accentuated the macabre arches and angles of the skeleton watching him with his friends’ eyes.

_Supraorbital crest. Maxilla. Mandible._

Enjolras cocked his head and Joly shook his own, breathing out unsteadily. He could read a flicker of disappointment, there and gone in a moment before Enjolras looked away again; the brief frisson of connection may as well have never happened.

Joly stepped back and let himself be swallowed by the crowd. Half were already funneling into the mayor’s mansion; half were trudging back to their homes, too poor and insignificant to be invited to the victory feast. He used to be one of them, once upon a time.

“Ho, Joly.”

He looked up, startled out of himself, and tried to force a welcoming smile. “Ho, Garrett.”

“Aren’t you going to eat on the President’s dime?” Garrett shoved back a bright shock of white hair, lips curved into a bitter smile. He volunteered three days a week at the free clinic Joly ran (his “talent”, though no one in the Capitol had ever been especially impressed by the steadiness of his hands as he undid the damage their government had inflicted) and was uncomfortably outspoken at the best of times. “Or is your stomach turned too much to eat?”

“I’m just tired,” Joly said quietly. He slid his hands into his pockets to hide the way they clenched.

Garrett snorted. “I hear you on that. Shall I walk you back? I don’t need to go in—I probably shouldn’t, anyway.”

“No, thank you. I know the way.” He hesitated, then added, “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Not even the Peacekeepers could keep me away. Sleep well, Doc.”

“Sleep well,” he said; his nails bit into the meat of his palms. There were days—weeks, months—where the empty platitudes ( _good morning, good evening, how are you, I am fine, I am fine, I am just fine, thank you_ ) felt like they’d been imprinted on his brain. Like they were lines he’d memorized. Before, no one cared to ask how he was feeling. No one wondered if the phantom agony was back. God, he missed being a nobody.

He missed not being able to think.

He should go home. There was an empty house waiting for him in the Village. It was immaculate, so clean it was Joly’s secret shame. The counters gleamed with the bleach that stung his fingers, and plastic covered the couches, the chairs—the bed, on his worst days. It would be hours until Bossuet and Musichetta could escape their own forced appearance in District 11. It would be hours before he could be curled around the phone, listening to their voices speak of love and longing and devotion. Anchoring him.

The big house didn’t feel so much like a tomb with their voices in his ear. His life didn’t feel like such a wreck when he had them, his work, _something_ to focus his anxiety. Being alone was bad. Being alone meant the memories could come.

Could claim him.

Could drown him alive.

God, what was he _doing_?

Joly jerked forward. “Wait!” he called, stumbling; the grace he had always been known for as a child had been sapped away years ago by the Capitol’s poison, by the morphling, by memory, but he managed to right himself before he fell. Garrett turned, brows arched, and Joly came to a lurching halt by his side.

“I wouldn’t mind making an appearance if you’re looking for company,” he said, putting on his best crooked smile.

Garrett just grinned and cocked his head toward him, accepting that at face value. “Living the wild life, are you, Doc? Well, good news for both of us—there’s a whole spectacle waiting in the main hall for us, if your stomach can handle the rot.”

“I’m going to tell you a secret, Garrett,” Joly said, falling in step with the older man. The smile never once slipped from his face, even though it always felt like his own kind of death’s mask. “When I have to, I can stomach a hell of a lot more than you could ever imagine.”

They moved in step together, slowly winding their pay through the dispersing crowd toward the hall. It had been decked out in the best 6 could offer, LED lights scattered on the vaulted ceiling, glittering like stars. The walls were chrome, etched with laser-precision. Joly reached out to impulsively brush his fingers over the fine grooves and ridges, then snatched his hand away at the sudden spike of panic. No, god, what was he thinking? There was no telling what hidden bacteria waited in those hills and valleys just waiting for the slightest touch.

He shivered and rubbed at his arms, looking around the long hall. The designs were mimicked on the parquet floors and scrolled over the arching doorways. The elite of the district were mingling about low tables laden with food. A champagne fountain that had seen better days bubbled and spewed rose-tinted liquid.

Like trails of blood in water, Joly thought, remembering the way his mentee had collapsed at Cosette’s feet, blood spraying from the wide gash against Cosette’s pretty skin, drip drip dripping through wooden slats into the still lake below.

“—see what we can see?”

“I’m sorry?” Joly said, turning. His hands felt cold and numb. His throat felt raw; each drag of his breath scraped along the edges, laboring lungs tissue-paper thin. The party was a swirl of color and light around him—more an impression of movement than real awareness—and he wanted to press the meat of his palms against his eyes. He wanted to push the images out of his head by force alone, wanted to still the incessant clamor of his thought, wanted—

Bossuet and Musichetta, curled around the phone they shared at the other end of a very long line, telling him how much they loved him, how proud they were he’d made it another day, as if surviving had become its own sort of victory.

But. That was the whole point of the Games, after all, wasn’t it?

“Joly?” Garrett frowned, bushy brows knit in visible concern. Shit. He was losing time again. “Are you all right, Doc?”

_No._

“I will handle this.”

Enjolras never managed to sound anything less than imperious, even if he bothered to try—and Joly was quite certain he never did. Joly turned to look at his friend, grateful for the thin line of his mouth and the sudden firm grip on Joly’s elbow. It was dispassionate but not unkind; if anything, it was kinder for being so detached. The cool command of that grip was enough to help Joly scrape the pieces of himself together again. He felt as if Enjolras had tugged him into the eye of a storm—so long as he stuck close, the panic was held at bay and his thoughts were his own again.

“Thank you, Garrett,” Joly said without a hint of a tremor, letting Enjolras pull him away. “I will see you at the clinic.”

The older man frowned, but he didn’t protest. People didn’t _protest_ anything Enjolras did. It was part of what made him so bloody irritating…and so bloody effective. Even Joly just tilted his chin to gaze up at him, letting the other man pull him throw a quickly parting crowd without a word of protest.

Enjolras was a force of nature. And it was in _Joly’s_ nature to push against that the best he could.

He offered a crooked smile. “So, I hear congratulations are in order,” Joly said as they moved through a pair of doors and into a private back room. Here the ceiling was lower but no less ornate. A water fountain burbled down the far wall and splashed into an elaborately shaped pool. “When will you and R be tying the knot?”

Enjolras tripped.

It was subtle enough that he was able to save himself, but not so subtle that he could play it off as anything other than surprise. Joly bit back a laugh, already relaxing in his friend’s presence. He’d known coming here was the right decision after all. He _should_ have sought out Enjolras straight away.

“That is not as amusing as you lot think it is,” Enjolras said, letting go and folding his arms.

Joly just grinned. “Oh, it’s pretty amusing,” he countered. “Did you know Bahorel was writing a song for the occasion? _Flowers in His Hair and Red in His Eyes_. It’s pretty catchy. Sure to get everyone on the dance floor.”

“ _Don’t._ ”

“Feuilly’s working out a toast for the happy couple.”

“ _Don’t_.”

Joly crossed his arms, unimpressed by Enjolras’s glare. It was one of his (very few) superpowers; it turned out that when your mind had been turned inside-out by pain, addiction, and recovery, a pouty glower from an infamous killer and would-be revolutionary was small beans. “I won’t tell you what Bossuet has planned, but I’m fairly sure it’ll be enough to finally do Marius in once and for all. We may want a backup from 2 for your grand scheme.”

Enjolras dropped his head, elegant fingers rubbing at the bridge of his nose. His scowl was more petulant than frightening. “Remind me why I tolerate you?”

“Because I’m Joly of Good Cheer, and I’m the only one you’d trust to be elbow-deep in your insides if this plan of yours goes sideways.”

That had his head up, nostrils flaring…but he was nodding, too, very slow. “True,” Enjolras said. Joly didn’t need the affirmation—he _knew _he was good; if he could do nothing else right, he could save lives, and that _meant something_ —but it felt good all the same. “That is very true. So.” There was a hint of awkward silence as Enjolras moved briskly through the room, supposedly looking for bugs both of them knew he wouldn’t find. The waterfall made recording in this room impractical; it was the whole reason they met here year after year. But Enjolras liked to prowl, and Joly didn’t see any reason to stop him, so he settled on a low bench instead and contented himself with watching. __

__Enjolras ran his fingers along the wall (as Joly made a mental note not to touch his hands) and made a soft, thoughtful sound—as if he were working himself up to something._ _

__“Say what you must,” Joly said._ _

__He hesitated, but didn’t turn around. “Do you want to tell me what the problem was earlier? You looked…” Mercifully, he didn’t finish; Joly didn’t want to imagine just what echo of horror he’d worn on his face._ _

__Instead, he tilted his head, watching as Enjolras moved around the perimeter like a pacing cat. “Do you really want to hear my woes, Enjolras?” he asked quietly._ _

__The golden head lifted and blue eyes met his squarely. “Do you _need_ to tell them to me?”_ _

__“No.” No, no, that was the last thing he needed. The rest of the Amis had an inkling of how very close to unhinged he trembled every now and again, but only Bossuet and Musichetta…and perhaps ever-faithful R…truly understood the length and breadth of his personal demons. The lost time. The anxieties spiraling ever-outward. The debilitating shakes that came and went whenever he let himself think of those long-ago Games._ _

__He’d been the smallest and fastest of the Tributes that year. No one had put money on him making it very far. Certainly no one expected little, frail, petite Joly to make it to the end, least of all Joly himself._ _

__He’d survived because he’d been the last to try to take his own life. He was the last to go mad with pain and horror brought by the venom in his blood._ _

__And sometimes…sometimes he still saw colorful shapes twisting out of the corners of his eyes. Sometimes the world still moved in impossible ways and he had to fake a smile and cling tight to whatever he could manage and list the building blocks of his own body to make himself feel _real_ again. There was nothing so terrible as when the world around him stopped being _real.__ _

__But there was no need to tell Enjolras that. Instead, Joly tipped his chin, watching his fearless leader with steady eyes, and said, “All joking aside, R _is_ my friend, you know.”_ _

__Enjolras frowned at the sudden change in topics. “Yes,” he said. “I know that.”_ _

__“But do you _understand_?” Joly leaned back, lifting a hand when Enjolras would have protested. He was well aware that if he had been Bossuet, Feuilly, Bahorel, that simple gesture wouldn’t have been enough to earn Enjolras’s silence. There were some benefits to being one of the very few Amis without blood on his hands. “I will rephrase. R is my Combeferre, just as Bossuet and Musichetta are my Courfeyrac. I am very protective of him.”_ _

__“Ah.” The frown deepened, but there was a flicker of understanding in Enjolras’s eyes—and, perhaps, a flush of color along his cheeks, though the room was dim enough that it was hard to tell. “I wasn’t aware the friendship ran so deep.”_ _

___You aren’t aware of a great many things._ “Yes, well, now you are. Look, someone has to say this to you before it’s too late to turn back. We’ve all sacrificed a good deal to this revolution, and we’ll sacrifice more—a lot more; _everything_ , maybe—but it’s only fair that you three are _certain_ a sacrifice is necessary before it is asked of us.”_ _

__“Explain,” Enjolras said, voice flat, arms crossed._ _

__“Is there really no other way?”_ _

__Now he was certain Enjolras was blushing, though he was scowling, too—as if that could somehow disguise the pink flush creeping down his neck. “What are you trying to say, Joly?” Enjolras demanded. “If you have reason to feel this won’t work—”_ _

__“It’ll work,” Joly said simply. He thread his fingers, unconcerned by the fierce glower Enjolras shot his way. If anything, the glare made him itch to fight back. He had to watch his words carefully, however—Grantaire would have his _head_ if he said everything he could have. “The Capitol is full of simple people who are very easy to manipulate, and the two of you… Yes. It will work. But it’s asking a lot of R, don’t you think?”_ _

__“If he wants to say no—”_ _

__Joly made a disgusted noise._ _

__“—he _can_. He’s being informed ahead of time, and I will be told if he protests. We will find another way if he’s not willing to…ah…be with me.”_ _

__Joly dropped his face into his hands with a low groan._ _

__Enjolras was silent for a long minute. “You’re laughing at me,” he said slowly, “and I’m not sure why. What am I missing?”_ _

___Nothing I can tell you._ “He’ll do it. Just try to be kind when the cameras are off the two of you,” Joly said, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. “That’s _your_ sacrifice. And remember: R is my _friend_ , and if you hurt him, if you _break him_ , so help me, I will eat your face one strip of flesh at a time.”_ _

__He looked up. Enjolras was looking back at him with faintly lifted brows. Joly just _grinned_ , quick and feral as the street kid he used to be, even _before_ the Capitol reached into his head and stirred his brains to mush. “And I think you know I’m crazy enough to do it, too.”_ _

__“God knows you are,” Enjolras said carefully, and against all odds, the two of them began to laugh._ _


End file.
